imdb.com’s plot synopsis of A Prophet is beautifully succinct: “A young Arab man is sent to a French prison where he becomes a mafia kingpin.” Indeed, we join 19-year old Malik (Tahar Rahim) at the start of a six-year stint in the big clink. His crime is unnamed, but his scars tell a story.  He is tough, but wide-eyed and nervous. His Arab background sees him coerced by fearsome Corsican crime boss Cesar (Niels Arestrup) to kill Arab snitch Reyeb (Hichem Yacoubi) residing in Malik’s cell block.

Over the next six years, and near two-and-a-half hours running time, we witness the subtle transformation of Malik as manipulated to manipulator as he learns the machinations and politics of organised crime. It sounds like a grandiose action flick, but is instead an insular character piece, and in this it is amazing. The Malik at the film’s conclusion is completely different to the one at the film’s start, but his journey is so well crafted as to make such a transformation believable. A Prophet is meticulous, captures the drudgery and occasion violence of prison life without resorting to continuous Oz-like extremes, and has some magnificent performances, particularly that of Rahim whose expressive eyes remind one of a young Al Pacino in The Godfather. It is also deliberately slow, and its pace will divide audiences.  Some will find it interminably dull, others an expertly paced character piece. I moved from the former to the latter; A Prophet has lived in my head. A succinct plot that spins an intricate journey.

As a character of history, Nelson Mandela is relatively bulletproof. Some people have drawn attention to his less than perfect treatment of his wife, but on the whole he comes off pretty spotless. This kind of character makes for great history, it doesn’t necessarily make for great cinema.

Invictus is well-acted. Morgan Freeman is good (though surprisingly less than brilliant) in the role he was born to play. Matt Damon shows a lot of class, even occasionally outshining the heavyweight leading man. It’s well-directed, as would be expected from Clint Eastwood, even if the cinematography is a little uninspired.

The main area where the film lacks spark is the story – it’s just not Nelson Mandela’s.  The way he engineers the unification of black and white South Africa through rugby builds nicely, but halfway through it all just turns into a football movie, with occasional crosses to Nelson biting his nails. Damon’s rugby captain Francois Pienaar dominates these sections, partly because he gets more air-time, partly because he actually undergoes some kind of journey. It seems that as an ideal, and as an idol, Mandela is too sacred to be given human character flaws. The throwaway line that is the quote of this issue is the only suggestion we get of any chink in his moral armour. Instead, he’s reduced to an endless succession of rousing speeches, which lose their poignancy as they grow in number.

It’s all passable enough, but Invictus doesn’t excite and inspire as it should.